


they will build me no shrines and sing me no songs

by anupturnedboat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Loss of Identity, One Shot, Post series finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 13:17:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18700369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anupturnedboat/pseuds/anupturnedboat
Summary: Loss, is the sound of steel on steel, it is blood under his nails. It the blackest of nights, it is the disappointment of those that trust him. Loss, is making decisions, and seeing them turn into mistakes.  Loss is the thing with claws that holds him tight.





	they will build me no shrines and sing me no songs

He knows loss. It is in the fire blood that sings through his veins, it is what has forged his armored heart. It is drawn on his body in scars that never fade. It is written in the name that is not his. It is the cold ghosts that keep him awake.

He leaves as the walls of Winterfell are being restored, packing a small bundle of things in the night. He leaves Longclaw in the crypt. Sansa will know what to do with it next.

The stables are quiet, but Bran who is not Bran waits, a fur draped over his useless legs. Ghost shuffles nervously at Jon’s heel. He’s lost an eye, and his own scars have healed badly. Sometimes he whimpers in his sleep, and Jon wonders if wolves even dream.

“Don’t worry I’m not here to stop you,” Bran who is not Bran says in that strange emotionless way that still startles Jon, reminds him, that his Bran is gone for good.

Jon saddles a horse, secures his bundle. “You’ll tell the others? You’ll tell them not to follow.”

Bran who is not Bran nods.

He remembers saying goodbye to the small boy, in the big bed. Lady Stark’s ragged breaths. Jon hadn’t known if Bran would live then, but he’d prayed. He’d prayed behind a wall of ice, in black armor, even when there were other things to pray for. And perhaps the Gods had listened; at least that’s what he thought when he’d returned to Winterfell at last. But maybe all he’d done was doom his little brother to this fate. He’s added it to his list of losses.

“He loved you with all his heart”, Bran who was not Bran says. “That day near the bridge, the wolves in the snow.” Jon remembers the half frozen Dire Wolf carcass, the pups, and the inexplicable burst of feeling in his not yet blackened heart.

Before father had died, before everything had gone to shit, before he had this juggernaut of loss sitting on his chest.

Jon, a lump in his throat reaches down and scratches Ghost behind the ear.

“In that moment, you were already the kind of man Bran wanted to become.”

“Thank you for that,” Jon says around the lump. He knows better than to ask how Bran who is not Bran knows these things, remembers these things. There are so many mysteries that aren’t for him to unravel. “I suspect I won’t see you again,” he says, a deep sadness crawling up his throat.

“No,” Bran who is not Bran confirms, “This is where our paths diverge on this journey.”

Many moons pass, he doesn’t count. They avoid the main roads, rest along the frozen riverbank, hunt in the night.

Wisps of loss tread just far enough behind that the dark obscures them. Ghost growls low. Jon presses his horse to move faster, to put miles and miles between him and who he was.

Like unrelenting ghosts they follow; Ned Stark wielding Ice, his head in his hand, Robb, Benjen, Qhorin, Rickon with an arrow in his back, Ygritte’s gap tooth smile - losses shriek in the wind like the swaths of men who have followed him to the worst places and never come home.

Somewhere a Dragon takes flight, and the flap of its great wings sounds like death.

The sun comes up and he sobs into his hands. There are other kinds of loss - Arya, with her steely gray eyes, assessing his loyalty, Daenerys Targaryen, with her dress of white pelts and the sting of betrayal burning her from inside out.

He doesn’t sleep and sometimes it feels like there is no air left to breathe. Loss, is the sound of steel on steel, it is blood under his nails. It the blackest of nights, it is the disappointment of those that trust him. Loss, is making decisions, and seeing them turn into mistakes. Loss is the thing with claws that holds him tight.

At last they come upon an abandoned tower, forgotten, high on a hill, behind a copse of frostbitten trees. It is old, from a time before, maybe a relic from one of Old Nan’s stories. It’s been ravaged by the elements, and time, but still it stands. His voice is an echo along the empty stone walls. Perhaps he can make it whole again. Snow and moonlight lazily drift down through the broken and missing stones, but it shields them well enough. He sleeps more than he has in many nights, ghost nuzzled against him.

When he wakes his body aches and he suddenly feels so old. He doesn’t remember any of the bad dreams. It is quiet here, easier to breathe, easier to be alone.

Easier for the days to pass without having to think, or see or feel.

The first parcel is left overnight without him hearing. Wrapped in torn linen are an expertly forged hatchet, a wheel of cheese, and some dried herbs. He suspects Arya, but the air is still and she is gone if she was ever there at all.

After that, every now and then, always at night, small bundles arrive, containing small things like a single goblet, fishhooks, and once a cracked looking glass (the gray in his beard surprises him; the look in his eyes does not). Sometimes it is smoked meats, or wine.

If it is Arya, she doesn’t linger, she doesn’t ask anything of him, and he is grateful for that.

He and Ghost watch the rise of the moon on a windless night. Dire Wolves howl in the distance, Ghost picks up their ancestral song, but does not run to join them.


End file.
